Low Pressure (6 page)

“To return your lousy book.” He pointed toward the console table where he’d left it. Then he moved his boot through a heap of torn pages. “Seems somebody else likes it even less than I do.”

She was about to speak, but faltered and looked away from him, then turned abruptly and opened the front door.

Dent reached beyond her shoulder and pushed the door shut. She came around angrily, but he was the first to speak. “This
is
about the book. Right?”

She didn’t say anything, but she didn’t have to. Her expression said it all.

“You’re good and truly spooked, aren’t you?”

“I—”

“Because you know as well as I do that this wasn’t a teenager’s prank.”

“I know nothing of the kind.”

“What else would you have to be sorry for? You wrote that book, and it made somebody real unhappy.”

“I never said—”

“Unhappy enough to threaten you, and you’re taking that threat seriously. I know that because you’re scared. Don’t deny it. I can tell. So what’s going on? What gives?”

“What do you care?”

“Call me a nice guy.”

“But you’re not!”

There was no arguing that. For seconds they glared at each other, then her head dropped forward and she kept it bowed for several moments. When she raised it, she brushed back a strand of hair that had shaken loose from her ponytail.

“Dent, I’ve had a perfectly rotten day. First I had to encounter you, when you were so obviously hostile and rejecting of any olive branch. I had to stand by, uselessly, in that cancer ward and watch my dad, whom I love more than anyone in the world, suffer untold pain and indignity.

“I didn’t want to leave him, but he invented a business matter that needs to be dealt with tomorrow morning as soon as the offices open. But the real reason he sent me back was to spare me having to see him like that.

“Then, during the flight home, I had to talk myself out of having a full-blown panic attack, which was not only terrifying, but humiliating because you were there to see it. I got home to find my house wrecked, and then you showed up and started giving me grief. I’ve had it. I’m leaving. You can stay, or leave, or go to hell. It makes no difference to me.”

On her way out she flicked a master switch that turned off every light in the house, leaving Dent in the dark.

Ray Strickland was a man better avoided, and he worked at making himself appear so.

He had come by his mean countenance naturally, but he had developed mannerisms to match his appearance. A thick, low brow formed a perpetual scowl that kept his deeply set eyes in shadow. His wide shoulders and muscled arms would have made him look top-heavy if his legs weren’t equally stout.

He didn’t shave his head, but buzzed it closely with an electric razor every few days. An iron cross, like the German war medal, was tattooed on his nape. Other tats decorated his arms and chest. He was especially proud of the snake, bared fangs dripping venom, that coiled around his left arm from shoulder to wrist.

The serpent hid the scars.

Attached to his belt was a leather scabbard that held a knife he kept honed and ready in case somebody didn’t heed the advertising and decided to mess with him.

He gave off an aura of Leave Me the Hell Alone. Most anyone who crossed paths with him was happy to oblige. Tonight he was in a particularly fractious mood.

The bar where he had stopped for refreshment was crowded and hot, the band lousy and loud. Every new arrival that came through the opaque-glass entrance increased Ray’s irritation. They encroached on his space and sucked up his air. He’d left his leather vest open for ventilation, but he still felt constricted.

He signaled the waitress for another shot of straight tequila. She was wearing a black cowboy hat with a feather band, a black leather bra, and low-rise jeans. Her navel was pierced with a silver ring, and attached to it was a chain that dangled right down to
there
.

Ray let her see that he noticed. “I like that chain.”

“Thanks,” she said, with a silent
Drop dead
added. After pouring his drink, she turned her back to him and sashayed to the other end of the bar, giving him an eyeful of a heart-shaped ass.

The rejection made him mad as hell. Not that he wasn’t used to it. Women just didn’t seem to take to him, not unless he plied them with enough cheap liquor to urge on a little friendliness and cooperation. He never inspired their lust.

He just didn’t have the gift. Not like his big brother, Allen. Now there was a ladies’ man for you. All Allen had to do was crook his finger at a female and she’d come running. In no time flat, Allen could sweet-talk his way past her bra and into her panties. He’d loved women and they’d loved him back.

Only one had ever turned Allen down.

Susan Lyston.

After that bitch, there had been no more women for Allen. No more
nothing
.

Ray reached for his shot glass and slammed back the throat-searing tequila.

If it hadn’t been for Susan Lyston, Allen would be with him tonight, chasing tail, getting drunk, having fun like they used to. ’Course they’d been a pair of wild and crazy kids back then, but Ray had no reason to think they’d be any less fun-loving now than they had been eighteen years ago. But he would never know, would he? No. Because of Susan Lyston.

Now her little sister was continuing in that same destructive vein. She’d written a book about it, for crissake! Oh, she’d changed the names, even her own. She’d set the story in a fictitious city. But those thin disguises weren’t for shit if you knew the true story. Her characters were easy to match up to the real people.

It made Ray burn every time he thought of how she’d described the character representing Allen. She’d called him “smarmy.” Ray wasn’t sure what that meant, but it didn’t sound good. His big brother was being ridiculed and reviled all over again in the pages of that goddamn book. And to make certain of it, Susan’s sister, who was all grown up now and ought to know better, was on TV talking it up, profiting off of Allen and the event that had ruined his life.

No way in hell was that right. Ray wasn’t going to let her get away with it.

Soon as he heard she was back in Austin, he’d started a campaign to make her rosy life a little less so. He’d wanted her worried, nervous, afraid, like Allen had been when he was arrested. Like Ray had been when Allen was arrested.

Then, after having his fun with her, he was going to make her regret she’d ever written a single word about his brother.

Today, he’d decided to send her a warning. Even though he hated making her more money off her book, he’d bought a copy and had enjoyed shredding the pages with his knife. At an Ace Hardware store, he’d bought a can of red paint and a brush. Getting into her house had been easy and so had finding her bedroom.

And this was the best part: At the last minute, he’d gotten the idea of using a pair of her panties instead of the paintbrush. He’d found her undies folded into neat stacks in a bureau drawer. He’d taken his time to choose the pair he liked best. They hadn’t absorbed the paint so good, but they’d got the job done.

When he’d finished, he moved into the kitchen, where he settled in to wait for her to come home. The afternoon wore on. The temperature rose, as did the humidity, but he didn’t turn on the AC. For some reason, it seemed important that he be uncomfortable. He didn’t want it to be easy. He was doing this for Allen.

Night came on, but the temperature didn’t go down along with the sun. He had sweat through his jeans, and his leather vest was sticking to his torso by the time he finally heard her car wheel into the driveway. He listened as she unlocked the front door and knew the instant she saw the mess in the hallway. Her gasp of surprise made him want to laugh out loud.

He was tempted to come charging out of the kitchen giving a rebel yell and scaring the living daylights out of her. Instead, he played it smart. He waited, straining to hear where she’d go or what she’d do before deciding what his next move would be.

Then the low growl of a car motor reached him. A door slammed. Footsteps on the walk.

Shit!
Ray had grabbed the plastic bag containing the paint can and gotten the hell out of there. He hadn’t even paused to close the back door. He jumped over the flowerpot he’d broken while jimmying the backdoor lock. He vaulted the fence and ran through a neighbor’s backyard.

Eventually he covered the few blocks to where he’d left his pickup. He was panting and leaking sweat from every pore by the time he reached the truck, but he was more angry than scared. Somebody had interfered with his plan.

He took a risk by driving past her house, but men like him were into danger and taking risks. As it turned out, this one had paid off. He had identified the motherfucker who’d spoiled his fun.

Denton Carter.

At first Ray couldn’t believe his eyes when he saw him standing under the porch light at Bellamy Price’s front door. But there was no mistaking him.

“Cocky flyboy,” Ray muttered now as he hunched over the bar and rolled the empty shot glass between his hands. Resentment bubbled inside him. Dent Carter was one of those lucky sons o’ bitches who could be dragged through shit but somehow always came up smelling like roses. Ray knew he’d suffered some hard knocks over the years. He’d gotten fired from an airline. Something about a near crash.

But, true to form, Dent had rebounded. Parked at the curb in front of Bellamy’s house was a sexy red Corvette, and Ray had seen for himself Dent being welcomed inside. Why wouldn’t he be, when, in her book, she’d all but labeled his character a superstud?

The whole thing made Ray spitting mad.

He signaled the waitress and pulled a wad of bills from his front pocket. Warmed up by the sight of cash, she came right over to him, bringing the bottle of Patron with her.

“Another for you, handsome?”

Oh, now he was handsome? Money sure had a way of changing people’s minds. He wondered how far it would get him with her. How friendly would she be if he reached out and yanked her chain? Literally. She’d probably scream like bloody hell.

“Make it a double.”

She reached for a second shot glass and filled it. “What are you celebrating?”

“I’m holding a private wake.”

“Oh, sorry. Who died?”

“Nobody.” He raised his glass to her. “Yet.”

D
ent fumbled for his ringing cell phone, squinted at the caller ID, and answered with a snarl. “Are you kidding me? Two mornings in a row?”

“Get your ass out here.”

Gall hung up without saying anything more, which wasn’t like him. He lived to argue. He reveled in arguing with Dent. Something was up.

Dent threw off the sheet and repeated the procedure of the day before, except that he didn’t shave and substituted a chambray cowboy shirt for the white shirt and necktie. He was out the door within five minutes.

In under twenty he got to the airfield, where Gall was inside the hangar, standing beside Dent’s airplane. His hands were planted on his hips and the soggy cigar was getting a workout between chomping teeth.

As Dent walked toward him, Gall motioned with disgust toward the aircraft, but Dent had seen the damage the moment he got out of his car. The cockpit windshield had been cracked. There were dents as large as softballs in the fuselage. The tires had been punctured. A blade on one of the propellers had been bent. The worst of it were the gashes cut into the top of each wing, like they’d been taken to with a giant can opener.

He made a slow circuit of the aircraft, surveying the vicious handiwork, his outrage mounting. When he rejoined Gall he had to unclench his jaw to ask, “Mechanical?”

“I haven’t checked anything yet. Thought I ought to leave it as it is till the insurance man sees it. Called the sheriff’s office, too. They’re sending somebody out. The wings alone, or the propeller by itself, either one would ground you for a spell. But both . . .”

Dent looked at him.

He shrugged, saying ruefully, “A month, at least. Probably longer.”

Dent swore elaborately. To him this wasn’t just an airplane. Or just his livelihood. This was his
life
. If he’d been attacked with a hammer and sharp blade he couldn’t have felt it any more personally. “How’d he get in?”

“Used bolt cutters on the padlock. I’ve been meaning to replace it with one of the newer kind, but, you know . . . never got around to it.”

“Don’t blame yourself, Gall. You didn’t do this. If I ever get my hands on the person or persons who did—”

“Promise to save me a piece of the son of a bitch.” He tossed his cigar into the fifty-gallon oil drum that served as a trash can. “Here comes Johnny Law.”

The next hour and a half were spent with the investigating deputy, who seemed capable enough, but Dent could tell this crime wasn’t going to get top priority when it came to detective work. The deputy’s questioning implied that the vandalism was retaliation for which Dent was responsible.

“You have any unpaid debts, Mr. Carter?”

“No.”

“I’m not talking MasterCard. A bookie, maybe? Loan—”